


Counting Bodies Like Sheep to the Rhythm of the War Drums

by spacemonkey



Category: Barry (TV 2018)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Mental Health Issues, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:27:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21848473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacemonkey/pseuds/spacemonkey
Summary: Barry's past has this way of catching up to him, no matter how hard he tries to forget. Post-Season 2.
Relationships: Barry Berkman/Sally Reed
Comments: 12
Kudos: 32





	Counting Bodies Like Sheep to the Rhythm of the War Drums

**Author's Note:**

> Hello people, and welcome to my first Barry fic! It's always a little bizarre entering the fic world of a new fandom, but I'm very excited to explore the fucked up and amazing world that is Barry Berkman and co. The tags and such will be updated as I add chapters, but for now, I hope you all enjoy this first chapter xxx

It’s not every day you see your own face bandied about on local television.

Barry knows the score, he gets how this works. It’s usually either a death announcement or a call to arms that accompanies the smiling headshot, and the steadfast pulse at his wrist has so far kept him from being sent back to Cleveland in a box.

_Block_ is mentioned and not forgotten, _Berkman_ holding centre stage as questions are asked, answered, glossed over. Three, four days ago, a sense of dread might have coursed through him upon witnessing this. Right now, however, there’s nothing.

A closeup of that Chechen pin, fingerprints discovered on the doorknob of a crime scene, countless bodies found within. They’re simply details that Barry already knows, and he doesn’t have the energy to be shaken up by his own actions. Carelessness, Fuches would call it in that familiar tone, like he’d never done anything stupid in his life. _You know, gloves exist to be fucking worn, Barry, yet here we are!_ Barry doesn’t want to think about why his prints are on the system in the first place—that’s a memory best forgotten. But if Fuches were here and regression was in play, there would no doubt be a reminder, a lecture that was one part _you’re still my boy, bud, so let’s talk solutions_, two parts_ I should have left your ass in Germany, you dumb fuck, you’ll be the fucking death of me, I know it!_

If Fuches were here . . .

Beneath the pillow, there is a Glock 19 that is only rescued from suffocation when sleep is needed or Barry’s skin begins to prickle. A passing shadow, wind rattling the door, a distant sound that could be anything, or nothing—it doesn’t take much for him to snap to attention. He is a former marine, after all (and who could ever forget, when he’s apparently committed to reminding the world at random intervals?). An important character trait, that, or so he was led to believe once upon a time.

It was only after his idiot self had been whisked from deployment to a sterile hospital room where those who entered all wore the same fake smile that Barry realized he was now part of a different breed. Marines, soldiers, those who have found themselves caught up in the atrocities of war—they know better than most how to bury the living.

Generally, it’s their own graves that they’re digging. Metaphorical shovel in hand, they’ll be done when they’re done, no sooner, so give them some fucking space. It’s trying work, and there is a chance, Barry imagines when distractions are hard to find, that both he and the world would have been better off if he’d let all that shit eat away at him in that hospital room until there was nothing left.

At night, as he watches the numbers of the digital clock hazing in and out, a red blur that remains even when he closes his eyes, the whispering voice in his ear provides a much-needed sliver of comfort. _It’ll all work out_, _things aren’t completely fucked_, it tells him, _you haven’t lost just yet_.

And it might be a sign that Barry is fucking nuts because he almost believes the lie. That, and at one point during the previous night, he cracked open an eyelid, spotted his gun within reach on the side table, and contemplated it being the source of that soothing voice.

He has to get out of this hotel room.

When did he last leave? Well, what day is it? It might be Tuesday, but he wouldn’t put money on it. The blue hexagons on the cream curtains are beginning to shift, all a hundred and four of them, and at this point, he’s certain that his photo will remain on the television screen until the end of modern civilization. No question about it: this room is suffocating him. Half a tank in his stolen car, a bed that squeaks with the slightest shift, thoughts that refuse to remain dormant. It’s no way to live. It’s not living at all. He has to get out.

And he does. Gun tucked into his jeans, backpack snatched up, the television slapped off in a hurry. It’s only after Barry slips into the rustling night that he realizes a plan would probably be useful. Where is he going? Fuck, if only he knew.

There’s nowhere. Not right now, anyway. But still, he climbs into the driver’s seat, where he stays, unmoving, for a good two minutes, choking the steering wheel with his hands as he stares, just stares, at fucking nothing.

Any semblance of a plan continues to elude him. Four, five days ago, he had half a mind to prolong his raging mindset by storming the monastery once more, hunting for answers. Fuches. A fucking clue (or certain death). But that was Saturday. Friday. Or . . . whatever, it doesn’t matter.

Somewhere along the way, reason came a-knockin’, it seems—that, or an emptiness that he knew on a first-name basis—reminding him that the world works in a number of particular ways. Specifically, a crime scene generally attracts a fair amount of continued attention, from the law and otherwise. He’d be a fucking idiot to . . .

A part of him is still tempted. To retrace his steps, right a few wrongs, somehow stumble across a time machine that takes him back to a life he wishes he could reclaim. Imagine: no police hunt, only a few complications in life (and that was retrospect for you, whittling a tome of problems down to _a few_), and a bed that is often kept warm and full.

_You feel tense,_ _Boo-Bare_, Sally said a lifetime ago, the look in her eye telling him that she had the cure he needed. _Just—just call me back, okay?_ she pleaded after her performance, right around the time Barry first raised his arm to fire_. I fucked up. But it just got to me, you know? _

Later that night, after making an ill-fated house call, he lay huddled in the backseat of his car, replaying that voicemail over and over until his battery died out. Her next message, however, he listened to only once before destroying his phone and making it known to the rolling waves at Topanga Beach.

She knows. She fucking knew him now, through and through. And Mr Cousineau—

No. He’s not thinking about that. A plan, a look to the future, memories of his childhood. One step forward, two steps back, dwell on prom instead, on that fateful day his mother sat him down with a sigh, divorce on her mind_. _He’s determined this time. _Is it true, Barry?_ A distraction, anything. _Berkman, right? We spoke on the phone_. No, focus. Mom’s turned-down mouth, his _Master of Puppets_ poster slowly betraying the Blu Tack holding it to the wall, that look on Mr Cousineau’s face. _Is it true, Barry?_ That fucking look on—stop. _I’m calling the cops_. Stopstopstop.

_Is it true?_

And there it is again, that familiar sensation, pulsating at his forehead, his hairline. A quick glance in the rear-view shows reddened skin, an expression he almost recognizes. _Fucking idiot_. One of these days he’s going to end up right back there if he’s not careful. In an uncomfortable bed, putting up with those fake smiles. Either that, or he’ll cave his fucking head in with his palms. But there is a third option for him. There's got to be. He just has to think. To come up with a plan that _sticks_.

Not knowing what else to do, Barry starts the engine and sets off, with no destination in mind. A smart man would continue heading away from LA, take the I-10 and see where he ends up. Is he a smart man? Well, who the fuck knows anymore?

He’s barely made it a quarter-mile when a muffled sound draws him away from his existential crisis. All it takes is a moment’s consideration, and then he’s pulling onto the side of the road and fumbling for his backpack. _I love you_, he hears Sally say, her voice shining with a smile. _Come home, it’ll be okay. _But there’s only silence by the time he conquers the zipper and reaches inside. He already knows it’s not her. How can it be? The only number she knows is tied to a device that has, by now, drifted well into the unknown. _This_ phone—a Nokia that he’s had as a back-up for-fucking-ever and will likely outlive him by a long shot—has existed on a need-to-know basis, and there is only one man who would . . .

But it’s not Fuches. And Barry isn’t sure whether to be relieved or disappointed about that. Distantly, he’s aware that he’s shaking, his hand clutching the phone like its determined to squeeze the life out of it. You can’t kill a Nokia, though, they’re like cockroaches that way.

Or Hank.

It’s mostly a blur, that night in the monastery, but Barry has spent hours since then deliberating over who made it out unscathed, and who had joined that lengthy list inside his head—the one that just keeps on growing, no matter how hard he tries. His final conclusion, however, was apparently wrong.

_Hey Barry. I know you’re alive_, the text message reads, prompting a wave of déjàvu to rear its ugly head. _Answer phone_.


End file.
